


Five times the Rogues were there for each other

by IrenkaFeralKitty



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endor aftermath, Five Times, Gen, Grief, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Endor, Red Squadron, Rogue Squadron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-06-29 11:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19829191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrenkaFeralKitty/pseuds/IrenkaFeralKitty
Summary: Five times the members of Rogue Squadron were there for each other.





	1. Tycho and Luke

**Author's Note:**

> 100th fic posted to this account, exciting!

Tycho froze mid step at the sudden knock on his door. Putting aside his ongoing nerves and doubts, he quickly relocated to the cot that took up most of the space in his… room. 

There was a click and then the door slid open. 

Nodding in thanks to the security officer stationed outside, Luke Skywalker, Hero of the Rebellion, stepped through and gave him a warm smile. The Rebellion pilot was in his fluitsuit and gear with a bag slung over his shoulder. 

“This probably wasn’t what you were expecting when you decided to defect,” Skywalker said in a friendly voice. 

“It’s better, actually,” Tycho said. “I understand the security concerns about new defectors and, frankly, expected to be in a cell until I was cleared. There may be a guard at the door but I can go almost anywhere on base, provided I’m escorted. Plus, it’s as much for my protection as others.” With that last statement, he plucked at his somewhat battered Imperial uniform. He’d removed the rank insignia and handed over all his electronics as soon as he’d arrived, but there were still a number of Rebels who took personal offense at the sight of the uniform.

Skywalker nodded thoughtfully before dropping down to sit on the floor. He grinned and waved Tycho off when he made a move to offer him the cot to sit on.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be be cleared up soon. The events on Dantooine were pretty definitive by my book.”

Tycho nodded and made himself smile slightly in thanks for the vote of confidence. Dantooine had been pretty definitive by his reckoning as well. So much so that his hands were liable to start shaking again if he thought about it too much. 

He’d been arrested right after warning the Rebels that his plan to defect had been discovered, locked in an Imperial APC while Skywalker attacked it with an E-web, then accompanied him on a mad dash across a rain soaked landscape, lightning flashing around them as they made their escape on speeder bikes. They’d reached the Rebellion X-Wings just ahead of Imperial capture. 

“You’re doing alright, though? Overall, I mean? Do you need anything?” Skywalker asked. 

Tycho blinked, unused to such earnestness. Skywalker’s eyes were large and blue as they stared up at him. 

He really did care, Tycho realized. After months of being alone and terrified of someone realizing he was no longer a loyal soldier for the Empire, the sudden compassion and consideration being offered to him almost made Tycho want to cry. 

“I am okay,” he said after taking a deep breath. “I’m looking forward to being able to help fight the Empire. Although… I wouldn’t mind new clothes. I’ve been in these for a while.”

Skywalker grinned and suddenly offered Tycho the duffle bag. 

Tycho blinked, startled. Wasn’t that his, something packed for a mission?

“That’s actually usually the first thing new recruits ask for,” Skywalker said. “We’re a bit strapped for supplies on this base, but I did manage to get my hands on a few things. Here, this is for you.”

Almost hesitantly, Tycho reached out and accepted the bag. Pulling it into his lap, he unzipped it and took a peek inside. 

It wasn’t much, volume-wise. But it was thorough. There was undergarments, socks, toiletries-

A lump lodged itself in his throat when he found the travel size containers of Alderaanian hair products. 

The pain of his lost family and planet was suddenly overwhelming. Clutching tight to a bottle of shampoo that had been a popular export, agony ripped through him. Tycho found himself curled in on himself, eyes squeezed shut, as he fought back the urge to cry, or scream, or steal a starfighter and all the explosives he could find so he could go blow up the nearest Imperial stronghold.

His family was gone. Nyiestra was gone. His family home, his old school, city, trees, fruits, animals, gravball team-

A hand gripped his knee, startling him out of his grief. 

“I…” Skywalker hesitated, chewing on his lower lip for a moment as he knelt in front of Tycho. “I can’t begin to know what you’re going through, but if I can help, I want to.”

Tycho bowed his head, squeezing his eyes closed as he struggled to bring his heart back under control. It was pounding so hard it felt like was going to burst, and he was struggling to breathe. 

“I’m okay,” Tycho said, repeating his words from earlier. “I am. And I’ll be even better when I can fight back.”

Skywalker hesitated, then rose and nodded towards the duffle. “There’s one thing in there you should see.”

The bag was as heavy as durasteel on Tycho’s lap and the thought of more unexpected Alderaanian products made his skin crawl. Still, with a deep breath, he dug back into the duffle, carefully pushing the toiletries to the side. 

As he groped through the bag, a familiar heavy weave appeared under his fingers. Blinking, Tycho grasped it and yanked, almost dislodging half the other contents of the bag in the process. A green flightsuit emerged, nearly identical to the one Skywalker amd Sarkli had worn on Dantooine. 

“What…”

“It’s a promise,” Skywalker said. “As soon as you’re cleared, I’d like you to come fly with Red Squadron. You’re good, and we could use skilled pilots.”

“You want me-“ 

It was almost more than Tycho could believe. He’d assumed he’d get stuck on escort duty in something like a Y-Wing or Z-95 Headhunter. Placed somewhere he could be watched and monitored for signs of being a double agent. 

Skywalker meant it. His eyes were practically glowing with determination. 

Slowly, the Rebellion’s greatest pilot offered him a hand. Raising his chin, Tycho clasped. 

“I’d be honored.”

“Great!” Skywalker pumped his hand once, twice, then let go. “We’ll talk more when I’m back from a mission. I’ll introduce you to the other pilots in the squadron, too.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Tycho hesitated, fingering the zipper on the duffle. This was all so much more than he’d expected or deserved for having thought one person could change the Empire from within. “Good luck.”

“I’m not worried. Our intel is good.” Skywalker grinned. “After all, you gave it to us.”

“I gave it… You’re going to Ralltiir,” Tycho realized. “Skywalker-“

“Luke.”

“Luke. You-“  _ You trust me so much already,  _ Tycho wanted to say.  _ I don’t deserve it. _ “Still, stay safe. I want a personal briefing on your pilots when you get back,” he said instead. 

“You’ll get it,” Luke promised. “We’ll make it your official welcome to the Rebellion, Tycho Celchu.”

Such a declaration required a formal response. 

Putting the bag aside,Tycho rose and offered Luke his hand. When the other pilot took it, Tycho bowed slightly over their clasped hands. Straightening, he looked Skywalker in the eye. “I look forward to flying by your side.”

“So do I.” Luke covered their hands with his other one. “We’re going to stop the Empire, I promise you. Together.”

“Together.”

Fire surged in Tycho heart as Luke left. His small quarters didn’t feel nearly so oppressive and he suddenly didn’t feel like he needed to isolate himself in preparation for his next interview with Rebel Intelligence. 

Stripping off his Imperial uniform, Tycho changed into the green flightsuit. He had a place now in the Rebellion and it was time to look like it. 

He was a Rebel, and with Red Squadron’s help, they’d bring the Empire down.


	2. Hobbie and Tycho

Hobbie wanted to kick at the frame of his medical bed in frustration but couldn’t. His sprained ankle still ached and his prosthetic leg had been so badly damaged during the last mission Medical had taken it away to get him a new one.   


New arm, too.   


The mission had been the pits.

Beside him, Tycho paused his dutiful recording of Hobbie’s mission report. “Something wrong?”

Rolling his eyes, Hobbie gave Tycho a scornful look. “You just wrote down what happened. Wes is in bacta because I didn’t watch his back.”

Looking down, Tycho scrolled up briefly on the datapad. “Actually, Wes got shot because he went ahead without telling you and climbed up on the construction scaffolding, which left him vulnerable to enemy fire.”

“He did that because I wasn’t looking out for him properly,” Hobbie corrected him. “It’s my job to think things through for him.”

“He has to learn to consider the consequences of his actions eventually,” Tycho said.   


“You’re just saying that because you don’t like him.”

“I’m frustrated by him,” Tycho corrected. “He has the makings of a good officer. He’s just… young for a twenty year old. As bad as this was, it might finally sober him up some about throwing himself into harm's way at the slightest provocation.”

“Maybe. But until that happens, I’m supposed to look after him.”

“The person who gave you the mission is yourself.”

Hobbie grunted. “Someone has to. He is young for a twenty year old.”

“Not old and jaded like us?” Tycho teased, well aware of the mere two year age gap between them and Wes Janson.   


He really didn’t dislike Wes. It just felt sometimes that Wes was younger than his actual age and Tycho was older than his own. The difference of experience, he supposed. Wes had joined the Rebellion off the family farm, after all, whereas he (and Wedge and Hobbie) were already on their second careers.   


Deactivating the datapad, Tycho set it down on the bedside table and gave Hobbie a critical once over. “Have you been able to bathe at all?”

Hobbie shuddered. “Sponge bath.”

“And your hair?”

Touching the thin blond strands, Hobbie shrugged. “Does using dry spray shampoo count?”

“Force preserve us, no,” Tycho replied in an appalled voice. “Happily, I was suspected you’d say something like that and came prepared.” Digging into one of the large pockets on his trousers, Tycho produced two small bottles with a triumphant flourish.   


Hobbie looked skeptical. “The nurses will scream at you if you try to drag me into a shower.”

Tycho simply smirked. “Oh, I’ve already spoken with your nurse. We have a plan.”

Which was how Hobbie soon found himself turned around on his bed, his head hanging off the end and his lone organic foot propped up on his pillow. Tycho fussed behind him, layering towels under his shoulders and over his chest until he was almost completely swaddled. A large plastic basin was set down on the floor under his head on top of several towels and a cart was brought in with a tank of hot water and a hand spray attachment.   


The nurse who’s helped Hobbie move departed, leaving while Tycho rolled up his sleeves.   


“Just relax,” Tycho said as he picked up the spray unit, briefly testing the temperature of the water on his hand.   


After a brief hesitation, Hobbie closed his eyes and tried not to jump when Tycho got started.   


He couldn’t remember the last time someone else had washed his hair for him. Haircuts since he’d joined the Academy had all been done with an electric razor that left him close to, if not completely, bald. He sat down with a poncho around his neck, a bored soldier ran the razor all over his head, stray hairs were vacuumed up, and he was up and gone after a mere five minutes.   


He’d still been in school on Ralltiir, Hobbie realized as Tycho began to work shampoo into his scalp. His mother had taken him to get a haircut at a fancy salon for his graduation holos.   


Did she still have those displayed in the front parlor? Or had they been banished to the family parlor in the back of the house? Assuming she hadn’t gotten rid of the holos entirely when he defected.   


Well, that was depressing. Wrenching his mind away from the miserable belief that his Imperial supporting parents had most likely completely disowned him, Hobbie made himself focus on the present.

Opening his eyes just a crack, he could see the intense concentration on Tycho’s face as he continued to work. His fingers were moving in steady circular patterns as he worked the shampoo into his scalp. Gradually, his hands were moving across Hobbie’s head and towards the back of his neck.   


The pressure of Tycho’s work and the faint tune he was humming were soothing. Closing his eyes again, Hobbie let himself be taken care of.   


He wasn’t used to it. For as much as his parents had worked hard to ensure he had access to whatever he needed to succeed, they’d still expected him to rise to face whatever challenge arose on his own. He’d been responsible for arranging his own transportation to and from school and activities, obtaining his own supplies from his monthly allowance, and maintaining good grades while also fulfilling his expected role as the dutiful heir.   


He’d hated it. The only interest his parents took in him was ensuring he was properly presenting himself. His father pointed him at work training and educational opportunities he thought Hobbie should take while his mother ensured he was showing Ralltiir society the image they wanted him to present.   


Joining the Imperial Navy had surprised them but it hadn’t been unwelcome. No, the fight had erupted once they learned he was going to become a pilot. That wasn’t suitably prestigious for their tastes, nor a particularly safe career. If they’d realized how much he’d enjoy learning to fly and what it would mean for his future, he doubted they’d have let him take lessons through school.

He didn’t regret it, any of it. Learning to fly and joining the Imperial Navy had led him to meet Tycho and Biggs. From there, he found his way to the Rebellion and for the first time in his life, he finally felt like he’d found a place where he belonged. Here, he was surrounded by people who truly cared about him, not just how he could help them break into a new strata of society.

Behind him, Tycho’s hands disappeared and Hobbie cautiously opened his eyes. The other pilot flashed him a quick smile as he wiped his hands clean on a towel then grabbed the hand sprayer.   


As hot water flowed through his hair, a wave of contentment ran through him. Hobbie still felt a bit silly lying upside down on the hospital bed, but there was no denying how nice this felt. It almost seemed as though the water was flowing over his entire body, warming him from head to toe.   


“Almost done,” Tycho said when he racked the sprayer.   


The loss of the hot water was disappointing, but Tycho’s hands were back on his scalp moments later, this time with conditioner. His focus with this product was different from before - he was working it into the strands itself and not his scalp - but the end result was the same kind of massage that had accompanied the shampooing.

As Tycho squeezed and scrunched his short hair to work the conditioner deeper into the strands, the scent of the product wafted to Hobbie’s nose.   


_ This was Tycho’s stuff. _

The Alderaanian Rebels hoarded products from their obliterated world like the precious gems they were. And Tycho was wasting them on him?

No, not wasting. Tycho didn’t waste things, especially things from Alderaan.   


Swallowing around the lump suddenly lodged in his throat, Hobbie lay quietly while Tycho finished his work. Once the conditioner had been washed out, a towel was deployed the squeeze most of the water out of his hair. He never would have thought that Tycho considered him important enough to use some of his painfully rare hair products on.   


The room was cleaned up shortly thereafter. A cleaning droid mopped up the water splattered on the ground, emptied the basin sitting at the foot of the bed, and took the cart away to be sanitized and refilled for another patient. His nurse returned and helped rotate him around on the bed again so he was lying on it properly once more.

Tycho reclaimed his seat at Hobbie’s bedside, looking happy.   


Hobbie had to fight to keep from touching his hair. He knew Alderaan had special customs concerning hair and Tycho washing it had been, well, intimate. Not uncomfortably so, but there weren’t many he’d have permitted to do that.   


More importantly, Hobbie felt clean. He’d been perfectly sanitary before, but having his hair washed with real water and good quality products was wildly different from having one of the nurse techs spray his scalp with dry shampoo.   


The awfulness of the last mission suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad and, as he watched Tycho retrieve his datapad and reactivate it so they could finish his report, reviewing what had happened didn’t hurt as much. He’d done the best he could and while Wes was injured, he would heal and hopefully learn from his mistakes. They would all benefit from that.

“Thanks,” Hobbie said quietly.

Tycho glanced up and the skin around his blue eyes crinkled as he smiled. “It was my honor.”

They returned to the report and Hobbie felt it again, that bone deep certainty: he was a Rebel, and this was home.


	3. Wedge and Hobbie

Hobbie kept a close eye on the map on his datapad as he made his way through the winding corridors of the  _ Home One. _ It was a sign of how hectic everything was right now that no one had come to meet him when he’d arrived on the shuttle.

He hesitated for a brief moment when he reached his destination, double-checking that the room location inscribed above the door controls matched the one in his orders. Seeing it did, he reached out and hit the signal button.

The door opened moments later and Wedge blinked at him for a long moment, looking worn and tired.

“Come on in,” Wedge said, stepping backwards.

Inside Wedge’s quarters were a small desk and terminal. The small bed sat opposite the desk and Wedge waved him over to it while he squeezed himself back behind the desk.

“I’m glad you made it,” Wedge said. “I’m sorry no one met you. I meant to ask Wes or Tycho but they got tapped to fly escort on a supply mission last night and I’m still trying to match service records with the lists of survivors.”

Hobbie frowned. “It’s fine. We lost so much on Hoth… Finding my own way through  _ Home One _ is fine. I had a map.”

“Right. Thanks.” Sighing, Wedge rubbed his face. His jaw was covered in a fair amount of stubble and his hair lay flat, weighed down by several days of natural build-up. He’d abandoned, or simply didn’t have, a day uniform, and instead wore an oil stained flightsuit. The upper portion of the suit was tied around his waist, exposing the sleeveless shirt pilots often wore underneath rough flightsuits.

By contrast, Hobbie had been released from Medical freshly bathed with new prosthetics and a clean flightsuit of his own. Another was in the bag resting beside him and he quickly realized that, for once, he was in better shape than his squadron mates.

“What’s the status of Rogue Squadron?” Hobbie asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

“What squadron?” Wedge said sardonically. He sighed again. “Right now, the squadron is you, me, Wes, and Tycho. Barlon Hightower has said he’d be willing to formally join us if we can find more people and I’m sure we can count Luke in… assuming he ever shows up.”

“Still no word?”

“None. Of him, or Solo and the Princess. My official orders are to rebuild Rogue Squadron with the best pilots I can convince to take on the most dangerous missions the Alliance can throw at us.”

“How hard can that be?” Hobbie snorted.  


“We’re still finalizing the list of dead and missing as well as doing an inventory of our currently available supplies.” Wedge’s lips twisted. “We’ve also lost a lot of personnel data. The records weren’t exactly detailed before, but with the Empire closing in, a good chunk of them were purged in case of capture.”

“So when does Command want the Squadron reformed by? Tomorrow or the day after?” Hobbie’s voice was as dry as the deserts of Tatooine.  


“Ha! As soon as possible. Fortunately, expectations aren’t too wild right now, but the missions are pretty haphazard. Command is grabbing whoever they can to fly as needed and that’s playing havoc on everything else.”

Hobbie’s brow furrowed in thought. “My orders were to report in,” he said slowly. “So I’m reporting in. What do you need from me?”

Wedge blinked for a moment, looking muddled before he gave himself a small shake. He bent over, balancing precariously on his battered stool and dug through a bin under the fold-out desk. After a brief search, he retrieved a datacard and loaded it into his pad.  


“You are still a Rogue, right?” he asked. “I was assuming earlier-”

“I am.”

“Okay, in that case…” Wedge fiddled with his pad, then scrawled several notes down on a piece of flimsi. “Quarters assignment. We’re hot bunking, so either make friends whoever gets your cabin on different shifts or make your own arrangements. Just let me know what those are so we can find you in an emergency. I’ve also written down Tycho and Wes’s bunk assignments so you have those. Um…”

The furrow on Hobbie’s brow deepend and a new frown appeared as Wedge dug through all the small fiddly matters: leave, canceled; pay, on hold; supplies, don’t even ask; rations, too frightening to describe.  


Then came the mission assignments. In three days, there was a raid planned on an Imperial outpost that needed pilots to fly cover. Two days after that, escorts were needed to accompany new ships transporting previously isolated Rebel cells to the main fleet. It was also understood that the Rogues, even with less than half a squadron of pilots and ships, should be ready to deploy to a combat zone at any time, much like Wes and Tycho had done the previous night. Between all of these assignments, Wedge had managed to stake out a limited amount of training time in the simulators to start running through a series of combat scenarios he wanted them to focus on. They were also being asked to help out with maintenance on their X-Wings and astromechs.

The list of matters Hobbie needed to know about and what Wedge was dealing with just kept going on and on and on. No wonder he hadn’t been able to shower for a while.  


Or sleep.  


Probably wasn’t eating much, either.

Especially since there was still Luke lost somewhere in the galaxy. Their leader, founder, and friend was missing in action and none of them had the ability to tell through the Force if he was even still alive.

Hobbie accepted the flimsi and noted down the necessary locations on his map of the ship: quarters, simulators, mess hall, refresher, and assigned hanger bay.  


“What are you working on now?” he asked once he was certain he could find his way around the ship.

“I’m going through pilot profiles,” Wedge said. He ejected the datapad with squadron information and inserted another. “I made a search criteria, but it only pulled up a portion of the candidates that should be out there. Which means I’m having to go through the pilot database and manually search for pilots who survived Hoth and are trained in X-Wings. Once I have a name, I add it to a list that gets run by Medical at the end of every shift. There are a few pilots who I’d like to interview that are still receiving medical treatment and others that have been taken off active duty for the foreseeable future. The two databases - the pilot roster and Medical - aren’t currently talking to each other.”

“I can do that,” Hobbie said, reaching out. He plucked the datapad out of hands and squinted down at the screen. Grabbing the stylus, he quickly located the different systems Wedge was accessing and figured out how to use them.  


“Hobbie, that’s my-”

“Wedge” Hobbie looked up, his expression serious. “Go shower. Eat something. Stretch your legs. I can handle this for a few hours. I’d be here anyways, since my bunk isn’t going to be available until next shift and the simulator reservations are on hold until the others get back.

“It’s my responsibility-”

“I’ll sit on your datapad,” Hobbie threatened. “And if you try to take it from me, I’ll sit on you until you give in. Save us both time and go bathe. You reek.”

“But-”

“Now.” Hobbie didn’t shout, but his voice was firm and unwavering. He may not have held a command post since the  _ Rand Ecliptic _ , but he’d been trained for years to lead. There was a reason Biggs had turned command of their simultaneous mutinies over to him and it wasn’t just his scores back at the Academy.  


Hobbie didn’t like the pressure of being in command for extended periods of time, but damned if he didn’t have the skills and gravitas to deploy as needed.

Wedge sagged against the top of his desk, bowing his head. Finally, he sighed and pushed himself to his feet, nodding at Hobbie in rueful surrender.  


“I’ll be back soon,” Wedge promised. He swept the items littered on the desk into another container and folded the desk up onto the wall. After retrieving his go-bag from under the bd, he departed, giving Hobbie a final lingering look of concern.

The room was silent as Hobbie sat quietly, waiting to make sure Wedge didn’t come back.. When it was clear the Corelllian was well and truly gone, Hobbie settled himself more comfortably on the bed and pulled up the pilot profile Wedge had created. He needed to know what to look for so he could find good pilots for Wedge to interview.

By the time Wedge returned two hours later, Hobbie had shifted off the bed and taken over Wedge’s desk and stool. Instead of responding to Wedge’s demand for his datapad, he glared and pointed at the bed, staring unblinking at the other pilots until he gave in and laid down to rest.  


The problem, Hobbie had realized, was the Wedge was dealing with everything all by himself. He’d taken command of Rogue Squadron before and served as it’s second-in-command during regular duties, but the formal structure they were used to having had been destroyed on Hoth.  


It was also clear that Wedge was holding out hope that Luke would return and had reserved the Rogue Leader spot for their wayward Jedi in training.  


It was a lovely idea, but utterly impractical under the circumstances.  


Hobbie made a brief note on the roster, changing Wedge’s assignment from Rogue Two to Rogue One. He’d leave the Leader position for Luke, assuming he wasn’t dead, but this wasn’t the time to dither around about who was in charge.

He let Wedge sleep for several hours, almost to the end of the next shift. He eventually broke out his own datapad and started using both devices. Access to Wedge’s pad meant he had Wedge’s authority to assign roles to Rogue Squadron pilots. After filling out a few forms and forging Wedge’s signature, Hobbie’s pad pinged softly as it acknowledged a new set of data permissions.  


He wasn’t touching mission or Intelligence stuff, but it was ridiculous for Wedge to continue grappling with all the datawork. He’d done some of it before, he could do it again. Tycho was better suited to be second-in-command and manage squadron matters like training and helping plan missions, but Hobbie was better at the datawork than he was. Even illegal rebellions had forms for leave, pay, and medical issues. Once an organization got past a certain size, some degree of bureaucracy was needed to manage it.

Hobbie’s family had been solidly upper middle class back on Ralltiir and his parents eyeing the social status of their betters with hungry eyes. He’d been well trained in project management by the time he enlisted in the Imperial Navy, as his parents had hoped to position him in some corporation to use as a springboard to finally break into the upper crust (most likely through an advantageous marriage or through new social connections created by his hypothetical job).  


He vastly preferred blowing things up to chasing after people to get forms properly filled out, but he could do it if he had to.  


And the situation definitely called for it.

Wedge woke up with a sudden gasp, lurching upright. Whatever dream had gripped him had caused him to sweat some through his new undershirt and he spent several moments staring at the far wall, breathing fast.  


They were all having nightmares and would probably keep having them for months, if not years. That didn’t mean Hobbie wanted to invite Wedge’s personal demons into his own head, though.

“I found a few more pilots for you to consider: Will Scotian and Dix Rivan. Maintenance also sent out an update on how they’ll be prioritizing repairs and missile resupply. I sent in the acknowledgement for the Rogues.”

“You did what?” Wedge turned to face him, face twisted in confusion.

“I’m your XO now,” Hobbie said, offered Wedge his datapad. “Also, you need to change your password. It’s doesn’t fit all of Inteligence’s guidelines, you know.”

“My password is fi- You’re what?”

“You need an executive officer, Wedge. You’re going to crack and get vaped by some newbie TIE pilot on his first missions if you keep doing all the work.”

Wedge accepted his datapad with a dumbfounded expression. “Last time Luke and I tried to get you to do datawork, you swore you couldn’t read Basic and flushed the datacard down a ‘fresher.”

“Wes taught me how to read using tuber peels,” Hobbie deadpanned. “We had lots of time for lessons.”

Laughter burst out of Wedge, leaving him doubled over as he giggled helplessly. Neither of them could begin to count the number of times Hobbie and Wes had ended up on KP duty.  


“Okay,” Wedge chuckled once he had started to regain his composure. A few sniggers slipped out of him. “I’ll concede you can now read Basic, something I thought was a requirement for all Naval Academy graduates. Show me who you found.”

With a small nod, Hobbie beamed over the two personnel files from his datapad to Wedge’s. As the other pilot began to read through the records, a flicker of satisfaction that Wedge has accepted Hobbie’s self-appointed role.

They were Rogues, and that meant they were always going to be there for each other.


	4. Wes and Wedge

His head hurt. Wes sat morosely to the side as grim faced medics placed the body of the Rogues’ former crew chief into a body bag and then carried her away. The chill pack he was holding against his head was helping with the lump he’s gotten but the cold was biting into his hand like a thousand small knives.

Hells above, he hated not feeling safe on an Alliance base. One minute he’d been standing next to his hijacked droid, the next he was coming to with a pounding headache lying directly underneath the body of his X-Wing.

The medic who tended to him had explained matters as best he could. Viera Cheran, the crew chief who’s been with them since after Hoth, had picked up a bounty on Luke and tried to use his astromech as her assination weapon. With mere minutes to get away before the R2 unit’s reprogramming was discovered, Cheran had knocked him out, destroyed the droid, and ended up being killed by Wedge while she tried to shoot Luke when the two men returned to Wes’s quarantined ship.

A datacard with a hyperspace route leaving their temporary base on Kile had been found on Cheran’s body and sloppy, hastily made repairs had been performed on the engine of his X-Wing. If Wedge and Luke hadn’t returned when they had, Cheran probably would have fled their temporary base in his ship.

Frighteningly, there was more than a decent chance Wes would have been killed by the launch, lying as he had been near the exhaust ports of his X-Wing. If the heat of the exhaust hadn’t gotten him, the fumes would have.

Placing the chill pack on his knee, Wes gingerly probed his head. Pain lashed him as his fingers brushed over the knot, making him wince and pick up the chill pack again.

“How’s your head?” Wedge asked as he walked up.

Wes gave him a sulky look. “Hurts. Almost as much as my pride.”

“There was no reason for you to suspect Cheran would do something like this.” Wedge sat down next to him and stared out at the forest. “We’re lucky Luke didn’t need any servicing on his X-Wing before the battle. I bet she was hoping she’d have a change to rig his ship to explode.”

“That would have really sucked,” Wes said, paling.

“And we’d never have known what happened.”

"I don't understand why Cheran would do this!" The words burst out before Wes could stop them.

Wedge shrugged. "Credits are a huge incentive."

"We're all in the Rebellion for a reason. To just throw that away for the Empire..."

"We'll never know for certain what her motivation was, unfortunately." It was Wedge's turn to look upset. "I know it was necessary and I'd do it again. I just wish I hadn't had to."

"You're not a killer, Wedge," Wes said. "You can kill, but it's not what drives you."

Unlike me, Wes thought to himself. He knew what he was and where his skills lay. He'd known for years. His time with the Tierfon Yellow Aces had been painful in so many ways. He'd had to learn to fight, to kill, to fly in combat. It had been a painful experience as much as anything else.

And it was the most formative experience he'd had with the Yellow Aces that made this especially painful. Once, years ago, Wes had been forced to shoot down a wingmate to save the squadron. He'd murdered a friend in cold blood when he needed help. Piggy hadn't been able to pull the trigger, so he'd done it. He'd turned his brain of for a minute, fired the shot, and then helped escort the damaged X-Wing back to base while trying not to look at the body lying limp over the control panel.

There had been other incidents over the years where other pilots had flinched in the face of danger. He'd never had to shoot someone else down, but it had been a near thing.

And now this had happened. Wes wouldn't have been the one to pull the trigger, but he'd been trapped in his craft while the astromech hunted Luke down. He'd pounded on the console in frustration, ripped open panels trying to regain control of his ship, all the while waiting, terrified, to see one of his closest friends die under the crosshairs of his ship.

Thinking about it again caused a familiar wave of vile tasting bile to rise in his throat.

"Hey, you didn't shoot at Luke," Wedge said with some alarm, grabbing his elbow. "Your astromech was sliced."

"I know, I just can't figure out why she decided to use me. Why not one of the others? What about me made her think she could cover her actions up by blaming me? She almost managed to get into my comm system, Wedge. I remember her wanting to make an adjustment to it right before we launched. I bet anything my droid was supposed to kill my comm system so I couldn't warn Luke. If she'd managed that... Well, I bet one of you would have just shot me down."

"Wes, we'd never-"

"If I started shooting at Luke? And was refusing to talk on comms? You'd have no choice but assume I'd flipped sides." Wes's gaze was steady as he looked at Wedge. "Luke's worth more to the Rebellion that I am, Wedge. And don't try to say otherwise, you know that's not true. I'm a good pilot and a good shot, but Luke's a Jedi. We don't exactly have a bunch of those running around. The Rebellion can replace me. It can’t replace him.

Wedge clenched his jaw, brow furrowing as he looked away. They both knew Wes was right. After a while, he found his word. "The Rebellion might be able to replace you, or any of us, for that matter, but it would hurt the Rogues really bad to lose you. It's not something we'd easily recover from, Wes. You're not just our wingmate, you're our friend. You helped create Rogue Squadron and it just wouldn't be the same without you."

"Well, that's nice of you to say."

With a snort, Wedge bumped his shoulder against Wes's. "Anyways, none of us would assume you'd turned traitor. We could all see you flailing around in your cockpit and it was pretty clear you weren't doing a puppet show. And Wes? Cheran went for you because of opportunity, not because you're a better or more natural killer.”

Wes pulled the chill pack away from his head and gingerly felt around again. It still hurt but not as bad. “I think I’m being insulted.”

“Of course you are,” Wedge said dryly. “What I mean is that your usual astromech is getting repairs right now and you are- you were using a temporary unit. Which meant that if Cheran’s slicing affected it’s personality, you were the least likely to notice a change in behavior. I mean, it’d be pretty obvious if Kate suddenly turned into an assassin droid.”

“You sure about that? Wes grinned.

Laughing, Wedge nodded. “Your droid mostly seems to want to bully other droids. Specifically Hobbie’s for whatever reason. Artoo is the only one she doesn’t mess with, for some reason.”

“She doesn’t bother General Syndulla’s droid,” Wes said.

“That mess? I think they’d be more inclined to work together.” A shudder rippled down Wedge’s frame and Wes snickered. K8 was unusually independently minded for a droid.

“I think she tried to bully Artoo once. She came tearing into the hanger bay covered in plasma burns and we’ve all seen how liberal Artoo is with it’s arc-welder.”

“Exactly.” Wedge clasped Wes’s shoulder and gripped him tight. “Cheran targeted you because of opportunity, not because she thought we’d believe you’d turned traitor. We could never, ever believe that of you. She fooled all of us, so don’t feel bad that she got you. Before this, it’d never have occurred to me that one of our mechanics could be a traitor.”

Wedge’s unshaken belief in Wes was more comforting than he would have thought. The tension that had been building in his back finally started to dissipate as Wes let his spine relax.

“Now, if you’re feeling up to it, let’s let the real mechanics get your ship space worthy. In the meantime, we need to go help Hobbie screen the other astromechs. There’s a chance more than one was affected, after all.”

“I’m not an ameteur slicer like Hobbie is,” Wes argued as he climbed to his feet.

He swayed for a moment as he stood, taking several deep breaths as the moon swayed around him. Wedge held onto his elbow, grounding him as he got his bearings. Slowly, the vertigo dissipated and he was breathing easily once more.”

“You good?”

Wes took a deep breath, the air rushing in through his nose and fill his lungs. His abdomen expanded as he engaged his diaphragm and let his lungs fully inflate. He held that breath for a few moments, then slowly let it back out.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Shoving the chill pack into a pocket, Wes gave Wedge a firm nod. “Let’s go.”


	5. Luke and Everyone

It was a sign of how tired Luke was that he didn’t notice them until the door slid shut behind him.

The Rogues had been waiting for Luke to be released from Medical for hours now. They’d missed out on checking in on him when he chose to return to Endor with Solo and the Princess on the _Millennium Falcon_ and they were all stuck in their X-Wings on escort duty. Apparently, a partial squadron didn’t rate room in the hanger bay for the (relatively) short trip back to base.

Luke blinked, staring at them in confusion.

When he’d entered, Hobbie had been building a datacard fort on the desk tucked up against the far wall while Wedge sat properly behind it, frowning at a datapad. Tycho lay stretched out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling with half-closed eyes, and Wes was sprawled out on the floor, barefooted and stripped down to his undershirt while he did push-ups.

Every single head snapped around to look at him while he hovered uncertainty in front of the door.

“Luke!” Wes called out in a delighted voice. He dropped down into another push-up then rocketed to his feet. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“I can see that,” Luke replied. He scanned the room again, looking for anything out of place. Surely the Rogues were only here because of some prank that was about to go off?

Before he could spot any obvious sign of a trap, Wes wrapped an arm around his waist and steered him towards the bed. He smelled faintly of sweat and soap. Meanwhile, Tycho sat up, tucking his legs under him while Hobbie rotated around in his chair and Wedge began to make his way out from behind the desk.

It occurred to Luke that not all traps were physical.

He let himself be pushed down onto the bed next to Tycho and watched as Wes flopped back onto the floor. Wedge hesitated for a few moments then sat down next to him.

“We wanted to see how you’re doing,” Wedge said. “The past few weeks have been, well, intense.”

“You went from rescuing Solo helping with the ground assault on Endor’s moon,” Tycho added. “Then somehow got captured by Darth Vader and taken to the Emperor.”

“We’re just assuming your meeting with the super skeevy old guy was bad.” Wes nodded. “You’ve never come off as the kind of guy who got off on electrocution.”

“Electric shock,” Luke corrected while his mind scrambled to catch up with his friends. “Electrocution is fatal.”

Wes rolled his eyes. “Fine. Electric shock. Zappy zappy owies. Whatever.”

Wedge gave Wes a brief look of annoyance, his foot twitching like he was suppressing the urge to kick. “What matters is that you haven’t had time to really process anything. We wanted to see how you’re doing and give you a chance to talk. About anything at all.”

“We can’t give you a mission,” Hobbie said. “And we won’t report you on anything, so you don't have to worry about holding back.”

Oh.

Luke felt a small lump in his throat as he briefly reached out to the Force. The energy in the room created by the Rogues was wholly focused on him, yes, but it wasn’t oppressive. It was loving, warm, comfortable, something he knew from experience he could relax and unwind in.

How had he come to deserve such good friends?

“I’m fine. Really,” Luke said. “I just need some time to rest. Medical even said I didn’t need to go straight into a bacta bath to recover from my injuries. We scheduled it for a few days from now after they do another brain scan.”

“Brain scan?” Tycho asked, raising his eyebrows.

“You mean your brain is still calcifying?” Wedge demanded, spine stiffening.

“It’s _what?”_ Hobbie looked horrified.

“Well, it’s… Umm…” Luke hesitated, then crooked his fingers in mimicry of how the Emperor had shocked him with Force lighting. “You know. Side effects from all the _bzzzzz.”_

Wedge’s fury seemed to be building. “Command sent you on a mission knowing you had a _traumatic brain injury?”_

Uh oh. The sudden flames in Wedge’s eyes didn’t bode well for, well, anyone involved with planning the Bakura mission.

“No wonder you were being so weird around that one Bakuran woman,” Wes muttered.

“Weird?”

Wes shot a look at Hobbie that said, _Oops._

“We heard you were a little off your game,” Hobbie said after a brief moment. “Being unusually pushy and such.”

“I wasn’t being… Wait, people were talking about me?”

“That’s partially why we’re here,” Tycho quietly. “We wanted to check in in general, but that became a more urgent need after we heard some of the rumors going around about what was happening planetside.”

“We’ve all had our share of brain injuries from concussions and such,” Wedge added. “It’s not the same as what you’re going through but it’s closer than many others have experienced.”

Tycho nodded. “It’s close enough to know how wrong it was for Command to send you with that kind of injury.”

“I had to be there,” Luke said, shaking his head. “No one else could have gotten through to Dev.”

“Dev?” Wes asked.

“He was the man working with the Ssi-ruuk, right?” Hobbie said.

“He wasn’t working with them. I mean, he was, but it wasn’t his fault. The Ssi-ruuk had him for a long time. They did things to him, brainwashed him so badly for most of his life that the idea of resisting literally never came to him. They hurt him, used him-“

His voice cut-off with a choke as Dev’s death replayed itself in his mind. It wasn’t fair. Nothing about it was fair. Dev had fought back when he could. He’d died defying his captors and torturers. He’d died full of hope and potential and Luke hadn’t been able to save him-

Like Luke hadn’t been able to fully save his father-

Jabba’s dancing slave, Oola-

Yoda, vanishing before his very eyes-

The pressure of the past several weeks sudden swamped him, reminding him of just how hard he’d been pushing himself of late, and of his many failures.

Luke felt his spine start to curve and his breath catch. “I’m fine,” he repeated somewhat desperately. Even he could hear the hitch in his voice.

There was a quiet pause while Tycho shifted closer and Wedge laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be fine right now. Not with us.”

His chest was tight. His chest had been tight for a long time, Luke realized, as he held everything in so he could get to the next day. The intensity of everything that had happened surged inside him. There was just _so much_ of it.

Luke felt his eyes start to burn, his shoulders quiver. Wedge’s hand tightened and Tycho shifted again until his leg was pressed against Luke’s.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Luke struggled to find the calm center Yoda had taught him. He was a Jedi, the last of the old and the first of the new. He was supposed to be better than this. He had to be stronger to take on the duty laid on him-

There was a squeak. Cracking open one eye, Luke saw that Hobbie had shifted closer, his eyes locked on a datapad. He was there. Ready to help if needed but also offering what privacy he could in the cramped space.

Rebellion protocol. If there aren’t eyes on you, no one is “seeing” what you’re doing. You could melt down in the middle of a bunk room and it officially didn’t happen.

(Unofficially, conversations were opened by compatriots, commanding officers, or medics as needed. But no one ragged on you for grieving or breaking down. It hadn’t happened, after all.)

There was more movement Luke could just barely see and then Wes was leaning against his leg. The other pilot’s back was warm and the sudden clicking sound told Luke that Wes had started playing with one of the fiddle toys he kept on him.

Luke let his eye shut once more and he just tried to breathe as he focused on the sounds around him.

The squeak of plastic rubbing against plastic was the first sound he sorted out. Wes was turning a multi-sided toy around and around, rotating different parts as he tried to line up colors and symbols.

Next was the soft glide of Hobbie’s stylus across his datapad. Writing again. Wes was the only person who consistently saw his stories. The ones Luke had read were funny and somewhat silly. They focused on relationships, personal drama, secret inheritances, and so on. They were a brilliant escape from the constant stresses they were all under.

Tycho’s quiet humming was next. It took him a bit to identify the tune: it was an Alderaanian lullaby. He didn’t know the name but he’d heard Leia sing it softly to herself sometimes late at night.

Finally, there was Wedge. The small Corellian man wasn’t making any sound, but his presence in the Force blazed like a blue hypergiant star. Everything that made Wedge _Wedge_ felt magnified through the Force and he could instantly feel just how much loved him. They’d never put a name on, no, but their bond was eternal

No matter what happened, he would always have Wedge.

The tears began to leak out as Luke slowly forced himself to accept the heavy stress he’d been under. The hot liquid running down his face were water washing away the mask he’d been wearing for so long. He didn’t sob, not at first, but his spine continued to bend until his forearms rested on his thighs and he could bury his face in his hands.

Hidden away from the prying and gossipy eyes of the Rebellion, Luke let himself fall apart, slowly, gradually, but also inevitably.

The Rogues had fought in the worst battles of the Rebellion, faced some of the worst horrors and suffered horrific losses. There had been plenty of breakdowns in the past, but never one that summoned so many members of the squadron at once.

In a moment of pure selfishness, Luke grudgingly reflected that none of the Rogues had ever gone through something like _he_ had. He was so damned _tired._

When the first sob burst out of him, Tycho leaned in and wrapped a strong arm around his waist. Then Wedge was there protecting his back as they stretched out on the bed. It was cramped but Luke wasn’t ashamed to admit he needed physical contact right now. He needed the reminder that he mattered to other people and that they were there _right now_ to take care of him when he needed it.

All the stress, pain, and fear from the past several weeks came pouring out as his body shook and tears streamed down his face.

Was it too much to ask for just a little bit of time to rest and recover without another damned crisis popping up?

There was movement suddenly as Wes and Hobbie rose to their feet. Wes bent down, a large hand coming to rest comfortingly between his shoulder blades and lips kissing the back of his head.

Wes was a very, very good big brother.

“We’ll be outside. Call if you need us. We have your six.”

Another hand touched his shoulder and then the two Rogues were gone.

A fresh burst of sobs erupted as Luke felt Wes and Hobbie settle themselves outside the door. Their focus shifted and became steady and watchful. No one would get into this room without a damned good reason.

“I can call them back-” Wedge began in an anxious voice.

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s-” Luke sucked in a shaky breath. “I know what they’re doing. I just didn’t expect-”

He had to stop.

Breathe.

Again.

“I really don’t want to talk to anyone. They’re going to keep anyone from-”

His voice broke off again. The tears were drying up but he didn’t feel any less wrecked.

Tycho kissed his temple. “We’re here for you however we can be. Just tell us what you need and we’ll make it happen.”

“Sleep?” Luke begged. Please, let him sleep. Just sleep and sleep without having to worry or be on guard.

“Of course.” Tycho shifted them all around, physically moving himself and Luke, and poking at Wedge to get him to adjust to what Tycho wanted. This new position let Luke sprawl out some with his head on Tycho’s shoulder and Wedge a loose, relaxed presence behind him. Somehow, they didn’t have to lie pressed together from shoulder to hip. It was close, definitely, but not claustrophobic or too warm.

Tycho was ridiculously familiar with how best to arrange multiple bodies on a single bed. The thought was so startling and random that a giggle escaped before Luke could stop it.

And with that, Luke suddenly remembered the better moments, the ones where they heckled Tycho for his many conquests, teased Wedge for his ridiculous clothing finds, and chased after Wes and Hobbie after one prank too many.

There really was good alongside the bad.

Light next to the Dark.

Hope when previously there had been none.

The giggle fit didn’t end for a while, but no matter how much the others pressed, he didn’t bother trying to explain it all.

He could suddenly see the way out, after all. And that was all that mattered.

“You, go to sleep,” Wedge finally growled.

“I’m not sure you can give him orders,” Tycho mused. The words rumbled in his chest and Luke relaxed into the comforting sensation.

“Under the circumstances, you bet I can.”

The two Rogues continued to banter back and forth, their voices soft and familiar. How many nights had Lukepi gone to sleep with some endless argument being bandied about? Or some nonsensical discussion that never made sense to anyone who wasn’t a Rogue?

Luke was tired. So very tired. It still hurt to think about the second Death Star, the Emperor, and his father. Dev Sibwarra’s life and death would take a long, long time for Luke to work through, but at the very least, he had the space and time to let that process start.

Wedge and Tycho meandered towards ship refits and mechanics, which then transformed in turn to a discussion about dates and romance. Outside in the corridor, Wes and Hobbie sat tucked up against a bulkhead playing cards as they made sure no one dared touch the door chime.

He was wrapped up between two warm bodies and sheltered by loving minds.

Luke was starting to see the path before him. It would take him away from his Rogues, yes, but _these_ Rogues would always be his.

No matter what happened, Luke knew he’d never be alone.

* * *

Han whistled as he strolled through _Home One,_ carefully maintaining an air of cocky certainty. Confidence was the key. Confidence opened a lot of doors and Han had plenty of experience using it to his advantage.

He’d gotten the Advisory Council to approve leave time for him, Leia, and Luke, and hell if Luke didn’t need a vacation.

There was a nice little planet nearby with some decent saabac tables, pretty beaches, nice markets and a policy of not asking questions. They could get lost in the crowd and take some time just for themselves.

Well, for as long as the Council could keep from begging Luke and Leia to come save them from something or another.

Rounding the corner, Han walked purposefully towards Luke’s assigned quarters. His buddy had been released from Medical, as it turned out, and Artoo had eventually admitted that Luke had retired for the evening. Han would just need to pop in, get Luke into some civvies and…

Janson’s head snapped up like a Jawa spotting a broken down droid. A slow, predatory smile appeared on his face as he rose to his feet. It showed way more teeth than Han was comfortable with. Beside him, Klivian rose as well. He was thin where Janson was muscular, tall instead of short, and by comparison, looked like an ewok warrior could take him down.

They were both Rogues, though, and that meant they were both insane and highly dangerous.

“Evening,” Han said with a careful greeting. “Luke not answering his door? For a Jedi, he sleep pretty damned deep.”

One of Janson’s hands snapped up and seized his wrist when Han reached for the door chime. Han was suddenly highly conscious that Chewie wasn’t around to keep Janson from tossing him into a bulkhead and breaking a few bones.

He’d seen what Janson could do in a fight and it wasn’t pretty. And with Klivian backing him up…

“Luke’s not taking visitors right now,” Janson announced. “He’s pretty tired.”

“You know, I can see that, it’s been a hellish few weeks,” Han agreed. He pulled slightly, trying to free his arm only to have Janson tighten his grip. “Which is why I was thinking we could take a short vacation,” Han quickly added as the pressure on his wrist increased.

“Tomorrow,” Klivian said solemnly.

“Tomorrow,” Janson agreed. He was _still smiling_

“The Council might decide they actually can’t do withou- ow, ow, ow, okay, okay.”

Once Janson was done trying to take his hand off his arm through sheer pressure, Han found himself being shoved backwards. He stumbled into the bulkhead, rubbing his now aching limb.

“Have a nice night,” Klivian said as the two Rogue sat back down.

Right. Change of plans.

Han made a strategic retreat. He knew better than to poke at the Rogues when they were feeling territorial. Feral beasts were best left alone.

He didn’t whistle as he walked back to the _Falcon,_ but Han was already adjusting his plans. It wasn’t a bad thing to have more time alone with Leia, after all.

And ultimately? The Rogues looked after themselves. They were linked in ways that went far beyond mere squadron mates. Luke was safe with them.

Hells if they weren’t a bunch of adrenalin junkie mynocks, though.

Really, Luke fit right in.


End file.
